“And this is Josh,” Hari points to the guy next to Tomas, who looks like he just stepped out of a frat house. He’s wearing a backwards baseball cap over blond hair that reaches below his earlobes, and has round blue eyes.
“Hi. I’m American as y’all can probably tell. I go to school in California.” He rattles off the name of a pretentious college that I should probably be impressed by.
“Declan,” Hari pushes on, signaling to the skinny Irish-looking one with auburn curls that set off his pale, freckled cheeks. When he speaks, his thick brogue confirms my suspicions. I feel Claire stiffen next to me, and when I steal a glance over at her, her gaze is locked on him.
“And last but not least.” The final guy of the four steps towardsus, not waiting for Hari’s introduction. He has a perfectly manicured face with dark eyes and a thick-lipped mouth filled with teeth as white and perfectly shaped as Chiclets, all topped with jet-black hair gelled into a side part. He’s beautiful, that’s for sure, with the confidence that comes with someone being told as much his entire life.
“I’m Kyan,” he says, in a posh accent. “From Singapore, but I went to school in the UK. Just finished actually, so I’m a bit older than the rest of you. But I couldn’t resist one final hoorah before starting real life.” He looks at me with that comment, a glint in his eye, and winks. I feel my heart beat faster, heat rise in my cheeks.
“Nice to meet you all.” This comes from Adrien, her previously cold tone now replaced with a put-on honey warmth. I bristle as Kyan’s attention turns to her and her typical Barbie-like beauty. I think fast, desperate for a way to get his eyes back on me.
“So, are we going out for drinks or what?” I ask.
Hari chuckles. “Right, right. We can head there now. Bar’s just a kilometer or so down the road. Figured yous’d be okay with walking.”
We take up behind her, and I make sure to sidle up next to Kyan, close enough that his arm brushes against mine, sending a frisson of pleasure along my skin.
“So, yous ready for your first Australian night out?” Hari asks midstep, turning back to take in our expressions.
I decide to play it cool. “I guess, as long as there’s alcohol involved.”
But my comment is lost among the excitement from the others.
“Of fucking course,” Kyan pipes up, at the same time that Tomas shouts, “Absolutely!”
And I realize my mistake. I don’t need to play down myexcitement—the others aren’t. Instead, I notice a strange glance from Josh, a note of judgment for my lack of enthusiasm.
I force a smile onto my face, hoping no one else noticed my brief error.
Thankfully, it doesn’t seem like they did. The others are all smiling and talking as we walk. And why wouldn’t they? This group is going to become family for the next few weeks as we have ridiculous adventures and experiences.
I try to do the same, but a pinprick of dread lodges in my chest. Because I know how fine a line I’m walking. How easy it would be to become the girl I left behind in Atlanta.
One small misstep could bring everything crashing down.
5
Claire
Now
The air feels the same. That’s the first thing I notice as I exit the Sydney airport. Dry, with just the faintest smell of the distant ocean. I inhale deeply, nostalgia washing over me as my ride share pulls up.
“How ya going?” The driver, a twentysomething guy with windswept hair and board shorts, greets me with a smile and a heavy Australian accent, the sound of which floods me with memories. I respond with a “Good, thanks.”
“American?” he asks, and I offer a nod. “Traveling quite lightly,” he says, letting his eyes rest on my carry-on suitcase and backpack.
“I don’t plan to be here for long,” I say truthfully. I have a return flight booked for five days from now. Barely enough time to sleep off the jet lag. But if I handle things correctly, it should be all the time I need.
Ten or so minutes later, we exit the highway into an area I nevertraveled to during my first time here. The roads are windy, increasing in elevation. Eventually, we turn off a main road, onto a narrow street. As I watch out the window, the houses become few and further between, replaced with gates and lush greenery, clearly designed to block the world from the fancy residences that lie beyond them. Through it all, the driver keeps up a steady thrum of questions, undeterred by my monosyllabic answers.
Suddenly, the car takes a sharp right, pulling to the side of the road, and I feel my stomach shift. As the driver eases off the gas, the nerves I’ve been battling throughout thirty hours of travel return, the wings of my butterflies flapping loudly in my ears.
I’m not ready to see these people again, I realize. They were strangers turned family in little more than hours, the product of those whirlwind relationships that occur only when you’re all thrown into the same foreign circumstances. Like lifelong friends from summer camp, only our version was a month-long trip that culminated in death.
We’d kept in touch over the years, but primarily through our group text message chain. Early on in our trip, Phoebe discoveredmobwas the proper term for a group of kangaroos. One of the others had adopted the nickname for our crew, and it stuck. It was fitting, in a way. We were just as close as the Mob—for that one month at least—and equally riddled with secrets and lies.
“Whoa,” the driver says, prolonging the vowels with a surfer-like drawl. It takes me a moment to realize what’s prompted it.
